Page 17 of This is a Kissing Book

That didn’t quite work out as planned.

The buzz of anticipation mixed with the weight of unfinished business fills me as I stalk down one of the aisles with bookshelves on both sides.

There is a reason I entered the building this morning and it is unrelated to visiting the office upstairs.

Mom spent countless hours down here in her final months, chasing threads of our family’s history. I can almost see her at one of the tables, white gloves on, carefully turning pages of century-old correspondence.

Dad never came down here with us. I don’t want to become the kind of person who lives only for work. When I’m not on the ice, nerding out in these dusty archives wouldn’t be so bad.

Unable to shake the pull of the missing letters she searched for, I feel immensely drawn to piecing together the past.

As I venture deeper into the vast collection, like the flip of the shiny penny in my pocket, I gain a new perspective and develop a plan. While spending the summer on the boat with the guys is tempting, if I learn enough about the family business to keep my father satisfied, maybe I can finish what Mom started. Then I can return to what really matters to me. Hockey.

My fingers trail along the leather spines of old books until I find the section on 19th-century America and land on a thick volume about Civil War-era correspondence. I reach for it just as someone on the opposite side of the shelf does the same thing.

“Excuse me, but proper handling requires a permission ticket to access this book, and as I was already authorized—” The voice is muffled by the shelf between us, but I recognize Juliana’s sweet purr.

“I know how to handle a book,” I say, not letting go. Plus, I’m an executive. Technically, do I need authorization?

She peers through the gap between volumes. A pair of pretty gray eyes widens when they meet mine.

“What are you doing down here, Julieta?” I ask, my tone cocky.

“Cross-referencing something from the Eaton Boyd report.”

“Something unsubstantiated?” I accuse when really any questions should be leveled at me, having said the first historical name that came to mind and having no need to receive a report about the Indiana governor’s art collection during the nineteenth century. I figured it was best to keep her busy.

She bites her lip. “I was, uh, just wondering if, after Eaton Boyd died, the portrait of his wife stayed in his family or if it went back to the royal collection—she was quite the rebel aristocrat.”

“Why’d you want to know that?” I ask, voice flat because she should be upstairs doing assistant-type things—whatever those are.

Pink-cheeked and apologetic, she shrugs. “It was romantic.”

I grunt but can’t avoid the sincerity and curiosity in her gray gaze.

Then she sasses back, “It’s not like you gave me anything else to do.”

That changes now. I have a plan and Juliana will be helping me with it whether she likes it or not. But one thing is non-negotiable. She is my employee, nothing more. This has to remain professional.

My free hand finds the lucky penny in my pocket, the back worn smooth from years of rubbing my thumb over it. Lincoln’s profile reminds me why I’m here, buried in dusty archives instead of taking chances on pretty researchers with romantic notions.

“Romance.” The word tastes bitter. “People read too much into it. Make up love stories that probably weren’t there.”

I can almost see my mother wagging her finger at me, wondering why I’ve resolved to find the lost love letters if I think romance is foolish. Ask any of the women I’ve dated. I’m not a prime example of relationship material.

Juliana still watches me as if waiting for a smile, to hear a titter like I’m joking. Instead, I pop the bubble of any such notion.

“Romance is just wishful thinking, Buttercup,” I mutter.

My grip on the book doesn’t loosen. Neither does hers.

This almost feels like another kind of challenge—the opposite of how she dared me to get rid of her.

9

JULES

Toward the end of the week, according to Jeannie’s “tea time” reports relayed to me in code via the ever-loyal Wendy and Carmen, it comes to my attention that Veronica and Misha are bitter because they were “demoted.”